Deconstruction
by ryeden
Summary: The entire way back, I contemplated what he said. Was it a compliment? An insult? Was he calling me twisted; a freak beyond nature, only suitable as someone poured me like a boiling sludge and manipulated my form? Back then, I had no answer. But now I knew. Gozaburo drifted into my mind. Lines of blueprints wrapped around my eyes. Tabloidshipping.


_Deconstruction_

This is Tabloidshipping, which is Seto x Mokuba. Yes, this is incest.

It is also incest between two males.  
So shoot me.

_**Disclaimer:** I have no rights to Yu-Gi-Oh! or it's characters. This fanmade and I gain no profit from this whatsoever._

Warning: Contains character death and suicide.

So. Here we go.

* * *

Our love was wrong. It wasn't accepted; it wasn't the norm - it was to be shunned. And so, in our fear, we never let the media catch wind of our shared passion. Our business would fail; what little acquaintances we previously made would disappear through the passing time.

And it was that fear - that tension; the unquenchable apprehension that coiled within us - that made us pause in each others' company.

That fear drove us apart.

I tried to blame someone else - the media, the business, the general public - anyone besides the truth.

And the truth was me.  
It was fake; cowardly and non-confrontational.

I drove an irremovable stake between us; I cut our intertwined threads.  
And in doing so, I amputated parts that resided within both of us.

All because of my rational fears.

He was gone.

Mokuba - the only person I had ever truly cherished - was gone.

And there was nothing in this world (that no longer contained him) that could bring him back.

* * *

I had stopped believing in fairy tales at a very young age. I didn't cheer for the heroes; I didn't empathize with the troubled damsels. The villains never failed to disgust me and every tale reeked of false hope and petty smiles.

Their happiness was cheap.

That's what my younger self believed.

Or maybe that's just what I told myself, so as to soften the sting of jealousy.

I ignored the many tears in my youthful eyes.

Even then, at what should be such a bright and joyful age, I knew the truth.

There were no happy endings.

We were all simply wasting away, smiling until our fleshy cheeks ached and our brass teeth were ground down into pointed, sharp and dangerous spikes.

Pretences hurt.

I certainly knew that from first-hand experience.

After all, I was the cowardly hypocrite that spent more than half of my life ignoring what I felt my brother.

There was some sick, twisted sort of justice in this world.

Oddly fitting, for someone as contorted and damned as myself.

* * *

… I wonder if people cringed when they had a glimpse into my unprotected mind.

It was so like them, to back away from someone as broken as me, for fear that they themselves would tear around the edges.

All of us were selfish.

Especially me, since I craved Mokuba's company every moment, heedless as to whether he could spend time with me or not.

I was just as despicable and disgusting as everyone else.

If Mokuba knew that I was affiliating myself with the common people, he would've checked my forehead for a fever and asked if I could see how many fingers he was holding up.

It was sad to think about; to know that I will never have my brother fret over my mental and physical state again.

I'll never have anyone to prioritise; to save; to make me feel like a person in this world of hate and bitter inhumanity.

And that saddened me.

After all, if he was the only person that made me get up to see the sun rise above the horizon every painful morning; what could I do now?

I no longer had a reason.

Life had turned stagnant; a world without him was grey.

* * *

Sometimes I'd wonder if he was watching over me. It seemed a little cliché, sure, but you couldn't blame me for being paranoid.

And I found that regardless of whether I admitted it aloud; whenever my thoughts drifted to the possibility of Mokuba watching me, I'd straighten my spine, smooth my clothing and tried my best to look like I was coping.

And I wondered; was he waiting for me? Was he sitting upon a cloud (as surely he belonged in heaven; whereas I myself did not) and wait for me to join him?

Was I supposed to end this uneventful life to join him, or was it not what I was apparently 'predestined' for?

That was the one thing I was not entirely sure of.

Was it my unjust fate to end my life in correspondence to another's end?

Or would I live out the rest of my life in bitter contempt?

Was that truly all I was predetermined for?

Would Mokuba be the selfish one for once, and demand for me to join his side?

For that, I had no answer, but I knew I would join him willingly and without hesitation.

* * *

Gozaburo drew the blueprints for my creation; drafted me up with no careless mistakes or kind intentions. I was to be used.

When they put up the framework for my construction, the outline was crooked.

They didn't pay it any mind; I was to be broken eventually.

He kept on building upon the screwed robot known as myself.

Lifeless; without emotion. That was his dream. And for a while, I fulfilled it. I was cold and indifferent, and that scared _him_;Mokuba, who had actually looked at me with something akin to fear in his dark eyes.

He was the one that made me feel.

He taught me how; through the shock I had felt from having him look at me with horror; from the sadness he had displayed in his ashen eyes when he looked at me.

There was no parental supervision, no father figure in my unloved life.

But there was Mokuba.

He taught me how to open up to him; showed me that secrets - when shared between two people that cared - were fragile and beautiful things.

And that angered Gozaburo. No, anger wasn't a sufficient description of the pure loathing he harboured for Mokuba.

Hatred was such a repulsing emotion.

Out of all the things I could no longer feel, that was the one I missed the least.

Kind of ironic, to know that it was the one emotion I could lose myself in.

* * *

It was so cold in that house.

The fires were dying, my skin was cold to the touch and Mokuba wasn't talking to me.

That had been a rough time in my life.

And yet, I remembered it so easily.

I learned later that Gozaburo had threatened Mokuba. He knew that Mokuba was the only reason I hadn't snuck out; he was aware that Mokuba was the only thing I cherished more than my life.

And Gozaburo used that against me.

He clutched at him, when Mokuba was my only strength and only weakness.

* * *

Intimacy used to frighten me. Such unguarded trust between two people was so shocking to think about, to know that one could be so purely devoted to another.

I thought I would never find anyone to be close with.

After all, I was thrown on a burning pile, with no time to put out the fire and gather myself. I was broken and shattered; disfigured and lost among the rubble.

Broken beyond recognition.

I had accepted that; I had worked myself into exhaustion, so as to distract myself. At a time in my life, I had even ignored Mokuba.

But then I realised.

And I knew the truth.

Mokuba had been there.

He'd always been watching me, grabbing onto the fraying threads of my shirt when I was about to fall; enfolding me in the warmth of his outstretched arms when I was cold.

He was there.

And it was that constant reassurance he provided that made me develop these feelings.

Gozaburo thought it was disgusting.

He thought it was so shameful of me to depend on another; he claimed it was making me weak.

So he prevented Mokuba from seeing me; worked me into the ground; gave me impossible questions with a reward of seeing my brother.

I worked myself until I couldn't think. I dug a hole for myself to decay in, and each pencil stroke dug me deeper; farther away from Mokuba.

Truly, I didn't realise. I thought I'd burst through the bottom and emerge in the skies, finding myself with my brother and away from the prison I inhabited.

Unfortunately, I'd never had an imagination.

* * *

I used to have a recurring nightmare in my youth; I was victimised and torn apart, while Gozaburo sat as the judge, proud and on his throne, slouching like a rightful king. He would look upon me with a sneer on his face, glaring at me with disgust.

And I was so small.

So tiny; so miniscule; so _insignificant._

And I couldn't help but wonder; was Mokuba aware of these nightmares that claimed my young mind? Did he wish to be by my side, providing the comfort and security I never had?

I would never know.

Gozaburo; the beast, was gone. Mokuba; the martyr, had left me without his consent.

* * *

I was alone in this world of desperation and pretence. The media swarmed me like vultures, feeding off of the knowledge that would have been better left in its' grave.

Mokuba used to adore watching me play games. He'd stay up later than usual, watching the television screen with bleary eyes, defiantly claiming he wasn't tired.

I'd continue to play skilfully, winning with ease.

He'd cheer, and empathise, and display all of these easy emotions that usually distracted me.

One time, when he was seven, he fell asleep while I was still playing.

I ignored the game, scooped him up into my arms, and carried him all the way through the mansion, settling for his room only. My arms were sore from carrying him; my eyelids were threatening to fall, but I wouldn't budge. I placed him in his extravagant bed; drew the covers over his shrunken body.

He didn't wake.

I walked out of the room and slept on the floor in the corridor.

When I woke up, Mokuba was curled beside me.

The game was still playing, and I was losing.

But I didn't care.

* * *

One time, a secretary of mine had approached me only recently after Mokuba's decease. She looked at me, and I saw such pity in her eyes that I recoiled.

"It was a shame; what happened to your brother. A car accident! He was such a good kid, too," she said to me in what she thought would be comforting. She sounded so genuine; so sorry.

It destroyed me.

A car accident. Of course; Gozaburo had always been a formidable opponent. The crash would explain the rotting skin clinging onto Mokuba's frame; his singed hair, the lifeless look in his eyes.

I didn't respond to her. I just looked at her with cold indifference, giving her only a moment of attention and focusing on not allowing my hands to shake as they held the paper. If she saw, she would know my weakness.

She wasn't allowed to know that.

It was a secret.

And I promised Mokuba I'd keep it.

And as she walked out of my office, dismayed and uninspired, I saw the building's occupants look at me with disgust. Surely, I was used to it.

And I was.

But they had something else in their eyes. Shock, perhaps.

Then I heard them.

The whispers.

The incessant hushed voices began, talking on and on, spreading gossip about my lack of a heart.

"He didn't even care for his own brother!"

"He's a monster."

"His own flesh and blood!"

'_My own flesh and blood.'_ Of course I didn't care for him. I _couldn't_ care for him.

I told myself that, but it sounded fake, even in my mind.

If only they knew.

* * *

I wonder if Mokuba's life had been rough. I was his brother, and you'd think I'd know that.  
I was his lover; and you'd think I'd ask him.

But no. I never did. I was so self-absorbed; opposing my demon of a father, coming to terms with my new-found sexuality.

I never thought to question how he was going.

For the short time we were together, was he happy? Did he like being with me, no matter how wrong it felt at times?

Was he ever truly happy?

I've seen him smile, sure. I've smiled too, contrary to popular opinion.

He was such a bright and carefree man; many overlooked that factor in him. Dismissed his cheeriness for stupidity; regarded his carefree attitude as ignorance.

I still didn't know if he was actually happy with our distorted situation.

… I felt like I'd only ever seen true happiness in his eyes once.

* * *

It was Christmas, before we were adopted by Gozaburo. Before I had ambitions. Before we felt for each other.

In the orphanage, we were permitted an hour to go to the shops and buy whatever we wanted, so long as we could afford it. We were ecstatic.

As I dragged him along with exuberance, I came across an item in the store. It was a ring.

It was cheap; it was crude. Rusted, even. The metal was badly twisted, and it was too small to fit on my skeletal fingers.

It was perfect for him.

I just had enough money, and I bought it as I told him to keep his eyes closed. I asked him to hold out his small palm, and he did.

I slipped it on his finger and it tore through his skin with spikes.

I tried to take it off him; I was so sorry, so scared and frightened. To think I had harmed my own brother through what I thought was a gift; a kind gesture.

Perhaps Gozaburo was right. Perhaps I was a monster.

But no, Mokuba was too selfless.

All he did was put a bleeding hand on my shoulder.

"It's okay, Seto. It reminds me of you," he said, and then walked back to the exit.

He never took that ring off. Perhaps the ring was stubborn, and wouldn't permit its' removal.

The entire way back, I contemplated what he said. Was it a compliment? An insult? Was he calling me twisted; a freak beyond nature, only suitable as someone poured me like a boiling sludge and manipulated my form?

Back then, I had no answer. But now I knew.

Gozaburo drifted into my mind. Lines of blueprints wrapped around my eyes.

I knew that comment was supposed to be comforting. I knew he loved my makeshift gift.

But even so, it reminded me of Gozaburo.

And that just made it seem so ugly.

* * *

In my old and dusted room, I was growing old. Physically, I was no more than thirty, and yet Mokuba's face was the only sharp memory I had retained. I began to doubt myself.

I had contemplated suicide more times than I could count. To join Mokuba, to feel like a part of something large, to escape the oppression and scorn Gozaburo frequently practiced.

Could I go through with it?

Was it really that simple?

Through my thoughts, I consumed one too many glasses of liquor, and my eyes were bleary and my mind was jumbled.

There was one thing I saw.

A hand.

It reached out to me, and I saw the contorted ring on his left ring-finger. I gripped it with desperation.

It was Mokuba's.

It was comforting. It was so much easier to hold his hand when I couldn't see the sadness in his eyes.

And his hand grabbed my wrist; led me to pick up something. I didn't know what it was; my eyes were focused just on his hand. I felt like it would disappear if I looked away.

I didn't blink.

His other ethereal hand was tying something; what was it? I couldn't see.

I heard a strange noise, and he left.

I stayed immobile.

"M-Mokuba?" I whispered in the empty room.

And there he was again.

His hands; guiding me, leading me towards a better future.

There was a chair.

I stood on it.

A length of rope was tied to the chandelier, and there was one tie.

I knew what he wanted me to do.

I tied the noose around my neck, held his transparent hand in my other. The lights turned on, and I felt sweat run down my neck.

I could do it. I would join him.

I stood off, and there his hands were, suffocating me, helping me to get to him faster.

My weight brought the chandelier down, and it crashed on the floor.

The lights went out.

I didn't feel anything.

There was only the blackness, clouding me like a thick fog.

And then, shining for my eyes only, his hands emerged.

They picked up my broken body; dusted me off.

I grabbed his hand.

We walked off into the blackness, and we didn't look back.

* * *

_end._


End file.
